


Winnes Sintaim

by cori_the_bloody



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, F/F, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 06:03:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5816944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cori_the_bloody/pseuds/cori_the_bloody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the celebration of a Grounder holiday, Clarke and Lexa share an intimate moment. (Written for the prompt "Things you said when you were drunk")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winnes Sintaim

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters or the universe, just having fun with them.  
>  **Author's Note:** The title of this fic roughly translates to 'Victory Day' in Trigedasleng. Also, this is unbeta'd, so please forgive any mistakes.  
>  This is my first serious attempt at Clexa fic, and I hope you guys like it.  
> If you're feeling so inclined, come say hi or drop an ask over at my [tumblr](http://catty-words.tumblr.com/)!

As Clarke makes her way to Lexa’s tent—the sun laboriously dragging itself higher in the sky—she notices an unusual jubilance about the Grounder camp.

People who normally scowl at her as she walks past smile and nod invitingly.

Children are running around playing some game unfamiliar to Clarke. It seems to involve tapping each other on the shoulders and then darting away before you're touched again.

The smell of smoking fish and juicy red berries has replaced the thick, acrid smell of leftover stew.

“Okay, did I wake up in an alternate universe or something?” she asks as she pushes through the tent flaps with a flourish. "Everyone's weirdly happy."

“Excuse us,” Lexa says to her guards and then turns to Clarke, twirling a piece of charcoal between her fingers. Even the Commander seems touched by the jovial atmosphere, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Clarke, did you not receive my message?"

"I'm gonna go with no…is something wrong?"

Lexa shakes her head and laughs (has Clarke ever heard her laugh before? She doesn't think so, but the sound befits Lexa perfectly: controlled and succinct with just an undercurrent of warmth). "Does it appear as though something is wrong?"

"It appears as though something isn't normal, that's for sure," Clarke says, tilting her chin up defiantly. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

Instead of answering her question, Lexa turns her back and leans over the table that's scattered with their strategies and plans. "I sent Octavia to Camp Jaha with a letter for you. It's a shame she didn't intercept you on your journey over here; I cannot hold congress with you today, Clarke."

"Why not?" She tries and fails not to sound like a petulant child.

"Today is special for my people."

"Yeah, well, my people are dying. More of them every day. And you want to, what? Call a timeout on war?"

Lexa sighs like she carries the weariness of every one of her predecessors. "This is no time to get sensitive, Clarke. I'm sure your people have their own traditions, and I'd just as soon respect them. As long as you're here, you're welcome to join the festivities. If you'd rather sulk over lost time, please do so elsewhere."

Clarke feels her lip twitch up in a sneer, but—even though their time working together has been short—she already knows the telltale signs of Lexa's stubbornness. She's not going to budge.

So, in an effort to soothe the mounting tension between them, Clarke swallows her pride and steps into place next to Lexa. "What're you working on?"

Lexa glances up at Clarke, cocking her eyebrow. Clarke offers her a sheepish smile and she ducks her head in response…but not before Clarke sees her smile back.

"As the Commander, I am expected to give an address later. Given the countless troubles we're currently facing, there is a certain pressure to make it memorable."

"I've seen you work a crowd before. You've a wordsmith in your own right, Lexa. I'm sure the speech will amaze and astound."

Lexa stands taller, pleased by Clarke's compliment. "It will be adequate, at least."

Clarke rolls her eyes and asks, "So what's special about today, anyway?"

"It's _Winnes Sintaim_. Nearly 200 seasons ago, a brave Commander—Silvya—successfully fought the beasts and rouges of this region." Lexa's eyes are the most animated Clarke's ever seen them, and she hears years of history in the practiced nature of the story. This is the Grounder's Christopher Columbus, their Leif Eriksson…their Neil Armstrong. "The battles were treacherous and many people were lost, but Silvya remained fierce and vigilant. She harnessed the power of the sun to distract her enemies, and her cleverness is widely regarded as our people's saving grace. Having a home drastically reduced winter fatalities. More children than ever survived to adulthood. The human race as we know it would not exist without Commander Silvya's bravery."

"She's your hero," Clarke observes.

"I am her direct descendant," Lexa says. "Her legacy lives on through me."

"Well there you go. Harness her cleverness for your speech," Clarke says, tapping the parchment on which Lexa's been writing.

Lexa runs the charcoal along the edge of the paper, sucking on her bottom lip. "I cannot access my predecessor's personality traits at will, Clarke."

"I know that, silly. But obviously her spirit recognized something worthy in you. You've just gotta believe that you're capable. Here, I'll help." Clarke pulls the parchment closer to read what Lexa's written and holds her hand out for the charcoal.

Lexa hesitates, then gingerly places the writing utensil in Clarke's upturned palm.

###

Turns out, the _Winnes Sintaim_ celebration involves setting off tiny explosives that crackle and paint the sky with different colors as soon as the sun goes down. It involves an enormous bonfire and intricate dances and venison with special seasoning that tickles Clarke's tongue and makes her moan with satisfaction.

Best of all, it involves a lot of fermented grape juice.

Clarke's been drinking the sweet-and-dry beverage since the sun was strung low on the horizon and the festivities blossomed into a full-blown hullaballoo.

Lexa waited until after giving her speech—which was met with a raucous round of cheers and what sounded to Clarke like a rendition of the old Ark song 'For She's a Jolly Good Fellow'—to partake.

Clarke watches her now as she toasts with her people, wandering from group to group being sociable and drinking and eating and smiling.

She's painfully aware that she doesn't belong here, that this isn't her day to celebrate, and yet she's held in place by the lighthearted fun. Moments like these are so few on the Ground. It's selfish, but Clarke wants to soak up the warmth as long as the jolliness of festivity (and the slow-tingle of intoxication) remains.

"Clarke of the Skypeople," Lexa calls enthusiastically, practically skipping over to Clarke and slinging an arm around her shoulder. "You look pensive, and this is not a time for brooding. Smile! Have more juice!"

Despite herself, Clarke chuckles and holds up her tin cup to show that it's still full. "I'm good."

"If that were the case, you'd look happier. What's weighing on you?"

"Nothing really." Lexa looks at her as if she's transparent, and Clarke feels a thrill crawl down her spine. "Okay, fine, I'm having big thoughts. But they're not bad, weighty thoughts."

"Might I be privy to your gargantuan musings?" Lexa asks, all but batting her eyelashes.

Hmm, Clarke kinda likes drunk Lexa. She's loose and playful in a way Clarke's never seen before.

"I was just thinking that, when you get right down to it, people are people are people."

"I retract my earlier statement. Less juice for Clarke of the Skypeople. She's nonsensical!"

Clarke snorts and takes a rebellious sip of her drink. "I don't think I'm the one who needs to be cut off."

"More funny words. Explain yourself."

"I mean…this celebration. The drinking, the dancing, the commemorating of past accomplishments. No matter when you're born or how you're brought up, people always have these kinds of traditions. And it's nice. I like knowing that no matter how different we seem, there's something inside of us that's just viscerally human."

"We are connected by a thin thread of humanity," Lexa nods. "You and I…connected."

She's looking at Clarke with a dreamy haze in her eyes that makes heat rise in Clarke's cheeks. It's a hypnotizing look, and Clarke feels herself moving closer, wanting to soak up the promise of unconditional affection.

When their foreheads are practically touching, Lexa whispers, "I want to show you something."

"Okay," Clarke whispers back.

And then Lexa is gone—running away from the campfire, her hair billowing out behind her.

Clarke takes a second to look around at the other Grounders, bemused by Lexa's actions, but no one is paying attention to them. With no other available options, Clarke takes off after the Commander.

She leads Clarke into the woods. They're not too far gone in the brush, but they're far enough that Clarke can only barely make out the din of the party.

"The wildlife here is confounding," Lexa says from the darkness, and Clarke carefully follows the sound of her voice. She finds Lexa sitting on a fallen log and settles into a crouch next to her. "See those?" she asks, pointing at the ground.

Emerging from an impressive mound in the dirt are insects that closely resemble ants. They're much larger than any of the pictures in Clarke's Ark biology books, though, and they glow a bright fiery red.

"Careful not to anger them," Lexa warns. "They do not mind human presence, but if you try to touch one they will leave painful welts on your skin."

"Yeah, cause my first instinct was to touch the irradiated bug," Clarke says dryly.

They observe the ants marching in disciplined, straight lines to and from their home in silence, sipping their drinks and enjoying the serenity of the moment.

"They are kinda pretty, huh?" Clarke says after a while. "There's a grace to the way ant colonies function. You know from birth what job you're going to have and you do it and then you die. Simple."

"You are far too magnificent for an ordinary life, Clarke."

The comment takes them both by surprise.

"I mean to say…," Lexa fumbles, trying to recover her dignity in the stunned silence that follows. "If I could choose someone to fight this war with…I'm pleased the universe sent you to me."

Clarke laughs once without humor. "If I had a choice, I wouldn't have to fight in a war at all."

"The universe is rarely _that_ kind, Clarke."

"I know," she says. Then, after a beat, adds, "I'm glad to know you, too, Heda."

The use of her title makes Lexa gasp, and then Clarke feels hands searching for her face. She catches Lexa's fumbling fingers and presses them to her warm cheek.

"Tomorrow we must return to the harsh reality of our situation, but for now…Clarke of the Skypeople…would you indulge me in some make-believe?"

Clarke's breath catches in her throat and all she can do is nod.

"In this moment," Lexa continues, whispering, "we are happy. Our lives are simple, like an ant's. Neither of us have ever known heartbreak."

Clarke closes her eyes, willing herself to believe the fairytale Lexa's painting for them.

"And we are allowed to be swept away by the wild, unpredictable tide of emotion."

Though she can't see, she feels the crackling of the atmosphere between them as Lexa leans in closer and closer until her lips brush Clarke's in the softest, most tentative kiss Clarke's ever been given.

Lexa doesn't dare push harder and Clarke quivers under the frailty of it all.

"Happy _Winnes Sintaim_ ," Clarke mouths against the Commander's lips.

"Happy _Winnes Sintaim_ ," Lexa echoes, her voice heavy with the lives they'll never get a chance to lead.


End file.
